The Burning Triangle
by Eliza Provident Martense
Summary: A secret service agent is found murdered shortly after his encounter with Irene. Suspicion instantly falls on her and her arrest is issued - but what happens when both Mycroft and Sherlock find themselves unwillingly attracted to The Woman?
1. A Midnight Conversation

The Burning Triangle

**Episode One: A Midnight Conversation**

"I suppose that you know why I wished to speak with you, Miss Adler."

She glanced across the table at the man: lips pursed in reproof, eyes narrowed, shining with a droll sort of speculation.

"I think I do. Is it about the boy with the dragon tattooed on his arse?" She lit a cigarette, exhaled through her nostrils in a single breath, then smiled past the jet of smoke as she saw the look on her companion's face.

His lips had relaxed from their supercilious mould and were now elasticised into a thin grimace of distaste. "If you are referring to the late Mr. James Belfry, Miss Adler," he said, his voice directed somewhere above the space where they sat. "Then, yes, you are quite correct. I would prefer it if you would refrain from regaling me with the intimate details of your relationship, however. Allow me to remind you that we are discussing a late member of the secret service, not merely another one of your various clients."

"It's an odd thing. I don't believe that I ever agreed to discuss only those topics that interest Mycroft Holmes and avoid those that…" she smiled, "…unsettle him."

He delivered a short laugh, rich in irritation, starved of any actual humour. "You do love your jokes, Miss Adler." His own smile was infinitely colder. "Was – ah – Mr. Belfry's death another such joke?"

She held the cigarette between her index and middle finger as though they were steel pincers, her eyes utterly cold.

"I should have known that one of the Holmes brothers would try to nick me for that."

"Oh, and why is that, do you suppose?" He asked, brows raised, the mock surprise in his voice never for a moment reaching his eyes.

"Because of the little game I played with you two last. Gave you the run around, didn't I? You don't seem like a man who forgives easily, Mycroft. I think that your little feud with Sherlock proves that quite well. Don't you?"

Mycroft had gone quite still; even his face was drained of its usual eccentricities, as he contemplated the woman before him. She was usually confident in her own capabilities, but Irene still felt herself turn cold under that gaze. Caught up in the power that she herself so often exercised, she sometimes forgot that she was dealing with the most powerful man in all of Britain and that the consequences of his displeasure could be severe, if he so chose. And yet he could not extend himself past the boundaries of the law; in that, she took comfort.

Mycroft broke the silence at last with a sigh.

"I would prefer it," he said. "If you would _also _refrain from bringing my brother into this conversation. Now," he sifted through the papers in his file. "To begin with, I would like to know what – "

"Don't you ever get a little tired of controlling everything and everyone around you?" Irene asked, a smile playing about her lips. "Wouldn't you prefer it the other way around – just once?"

"My dear lady," said Mycroft. "I can think of nothing more gratifying than the knowledge that not only am I master of myself but master of many more besides. That includes you, I fear, Mistress Adler."

"Oh, then it's a game of power, is it, Master Mycroft?"

"This is no game, Miss Adler," he said, unsmilingly. "Did you or did you not kill Mr. Belfry?"

"What do you think?" she retorted. "Of course not."

"Righteous indignation ill becomes you, my dear. I expect your clients don't require it of you very often. No matter, no matter. I suppose I can learn nothing more from you."

"Not unless you would like me to supply a few more of those intimate details for your delectation."

Mycroft gave another grimace-smile. "Always so amusing."

He rose, taking up his umbrella; let it swing back and forth as though testing its balance. "Until we meet again, then, Miss Adler. I trust it will be very soon."

He left the café and she departed through the opposite exit, her steps carrying her down the street in the direction of home. It was late, the streets dark and the air smelling of rain and clouded with fog. She never saw the man in the overcoat as he stepped out of an alley directly behind her and caught her by the throat to prevent her crying out. The prick of a needle at the throat sent a jolt of pain through her; the next moment, she slumped, unconscious, in her captor's arms.

She was still in a swoon as they hauled her into the back of the van, and drove her away; otherwise, she might have recalled Mycroft and his passing remark:

_"My dear, I can think of nothing more gratifying than the knowledge that not only am I master of myself but master of many more besides."_


	2. Services Required

**Episode Two: Services Required**

John Watson started for what seemed the twentieth time within an hour as Sherlock's phone resounded with yet another terse, electronic tone.

"In the name of all that's holy," Watson cried, putting aside the paper. "Will you please either set the damn thing to vibrate or else answer it?"

"I can't." The pale eyes of Sherlock Holmes lifted to meet Watson's own impatient gaze. "Somehow he's managed to program his texts so that they give that dulcet peal you are so fond of, with or without the permission of their receiving end."

"And 'he' would be…?"

"My brother. Who else besides The Woman could be both clever and obnoxious enough to manage such a trick?"

"Well, what on Earth is it that he wants from you at this time of night?"

"I have no idea, as he refuses to send me any message other than –" Sherlock paused for the space of a breath as he scrolled through his most recent texts, "—'_Are you awake? Call me.' 'You do love to play the child, Sherlock. Call me.' 'I am swiftly losing patience. I know you're there. Call me.' _Oh, and this latest comes quite charmingly to the point: _'CALL ME.'"_

"In Heaven's name, why don't you just call him, then, and get it over with?"

"Always the easy way with you, John."

"Yes, it's an odd facet of my personality that I find the intermittent beep of a mobile a little more distracting than a simple phone call."

Sherlock, made no reply, merely crossing to the other side of the room whilst still inspecting a thin, flute-like instrument that he had been toying with all of that evening. John released a breath of resignation and rose from the couch.

"I'm making some tea – would you like a cup yourself?" he called over his shoulder.

A _pffffft! _like the sound of a wasp in flight filled Watson's ear. The next moment, a feathered dart imbedded itself in the wall by which he stood. An acrid scent slowly began to permeate the air and Watson perceived a faint trail of smoke beginning to spiral from the point of contact between the dart and the wall.

"And…that barely missed me." Watson turned around. "Sherlock? Where are you? You just…"

"I know. Missed. Turn around, why don't you, John."

Feeling more exasperated by the millisecond, Watson turned towards the front door and found himself standing face to face with Mycroft Holmes. The man wore an expression of mild distaste as he plucked the smoking dart from the wall and sniffed at it. Wrinkling his nose, he murmured, "Dear me, this _does _bring back memories."

"I expect it would." Sherlock regarded him with his usual icy detachment. "Last time you graced us with a visit, you left a few foreign particles of white powder upon the sofa arm. I took the liberty of collecting them and running a few tests."

Mycroft delivered a long and very dramatic yawn, worthy of a BAFTA. "How very interesting. Now if we can get on with the – "

"I found that it was a very combustible substance, liable to explode when stimulated either by a sudden impact or, interestingly enough, a sustained contact with alcohol. What have you been doing, Mycroft – mixing explosive martinis?"

The elder Holmes laughed, his eyes fixed somewhere over Sherlock's shoulder, his mind obviously elsewhere. "What an imagination you have, dear brother. I suppose I should be – _flattered?_ – that you take such an interest in my affairs."

"Hardly." Sherlock crossed the room and sat heavily upon the sofa, his eyes meeting Watson's for an instant, a smile glimmering in their depths. "I was more interested in seeing what effect your powder would have if it came into sudden contact with your umbrella."

Instinctively, Mycroft drew his umbrella into an upright position, as though he feared a second attempt on its life. Then, catching himself, he laughed self-consciously and favoured both Sherlock and John with his most condescending smile.

"Charming, absolutely charming." He sat in the armchair opposite Sherlock's, resting his umbrella horizontally across his knees. "Now, if you are quite through playing with your little chemistry set, I've a problem that requires your expertise."

"Oh, do you now? Funnily enough, I'm not interested. I never am, Mycroft – haven't you learned that by now?"

"Really, Dr. Watson," Mycroft turned long-sufferingly towards John. "Can't you do something about him once and for all? We have to undergo this ordeal every time and I am certain that you, as a writer, must find his incuriosity rather frustrating."

"Incuriosity?" Sherlock retorted before John could open his mouth to reply. "That's an original sin on my part. Since when was I incurious, dear brother?"

"Since, dear brother, you refused to help me before I even made my request."

The sound of approaching footsteps caused the two brothers to turn just in time to see the approaching Mrs. Hudson, wringing her hands in embarrassment.

"Oh, I'm so sorry he slipped past me, Sherlock!" she said, flashing her most apologetic look upon both Sherlock and John. "I told him that you two deserved your privacy at this sort of hour!"

The eyebrow above Mycroft's left eye shot up a good inch or so above its usual station. "Privacy, eh? Do tell, Dr. Watson."

"It's…not what it sounds like," John gritted, too irritated to even feel embarrassment under Mycroft's leering scrutiny. "Sherlock just likes to be left alone at night. Private research."

"The usual sort of_ trivia_, I imagine." Mycroft flipped open the gold casing of his pocket watch, already uninterested in the possibility of a romance between his brother and the good doctor. "Mrs. Hudson, do flap away – it's such a nuisance trying to concentrate when one's nostrils are undergoing the constant assault of Givenchy No. 5."

"Seduced by it, are you, Mr. Holmes?" In spite of her disliking of Mycroft, a smile of satisfaction spread across her face.

"Hardly. Seduction implies a willing surrender. You are _raping _my olfactory organs, Mrs. Hudson. Please depart before I am further stifled by the violation."

Reddening, the landlady stalked out of the room, only pausing at the door to snap, "I'll bring up some tea for _two_ – Mr. _Sherlock _Holmes."

John cleared his throat. "Well, _that_ went about as badly as one could expect."

"Tsk-tsk, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied, smilingly unmoved. "Instead of reprimanding me, perhaps you should be asking – as Sherlock seems uninterested in doing so himself – why I chose to drop by at this time of night. It wasn't for the company, I can assure you."

"You locked yourself out of your apartment and would like to crash here," Sherlock murmured under his breath.

"Hardly." Mycroft's smile vanished. "Enough with the joking, Sherlock. This is serious business. A man has been murdered."

"Men are murdered all the time." Sherlock met Mycroft's cold gaze, his own eyes flashing. "You don't find me rushing into your home at half past midnight, do you?"

"Men are murdered, yes. But not all of them by The Woman, Sherlock. Not all of them by her."

The two brothers gazed upon each other for a long moment.

"You're simply wrong." Sherlock said at last, shortly.

"She is in custody," Mycroft continued. "Under _my _custody. You understand?"

"You have her holed up in one of your interrogation cells, is that it?"

"You could say that." The smile upon Mycroft's lips was as thin and cutting as a sliver of ice. "You could very well say that."

"Well, what do want from me, then? You have her. What else is there to gain? Unless…"

"She won't confess, will she." John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, comprehending the source of tension that now emanated from the latter.

"No, she will not," said Mycroft. "Which is why I require your help, Sherlock. Perhaps you can reach her in a way that we haven't thought of yet." He expelled a long breath and looked down with a slight frown in the general direction of his shoes. "Well, now you've been informed of the sordid details. Will you help us or not?"

"No, of course not," said Sherlock. "But I will go with you and perhaps by accident the doctor and I will discover something that may prove valuable to you."

"Splendid." Mycroft smiled, teeth flashing. "Then let us be off at once. There is nothing more effective than a late-night interrogation, I have always heard. Does simply wonderful things to the nerves. You understand."


End file.
